


Master Sword

by isamariposa



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Gen, Past Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17201867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: Link pulls out the Master Sword before the Calamity strikes and recalls his past lives.This was meant to eventually become a larger Link/Zelda but it never got anywhere, so it's now a Link one-shot.





	Master Sword

 

* * *

 

 

Link steps into the clearing, and draws a long breath.

 

The sword rests on its pedestal, bathed in the faint sunlight that barely pierces through the thick branches of the Great Tree. Link looks left and right, uneasy, and then over his shoulder. This silence… It should not be. Not one bird, not one cricket is heard in the forest. The air is still, too. As if the land, the skies, the world and its living creatures were all holding their breaths, waiting, expectant. He can only hear his own breathing. He steps closer. The Sword looks ordinary, at first glance. Link has been wary since he entered the Forest, expecting a great danger that did not come, save perhaps nearly losing his way to the Great Tree in the fog. Many have been lost on the way, to be spit back by the Forest - unworthy ones. Few have reached the Sword of Legend. None have managed to pull it out of its pedestal. All have failed to awaken the Sword.

 

Yet here he stands.

 

He's thought of this moment since the whispers began among the soldiery: the time has come for the Champion to come forward, they said, to reclaim the Sword and aid the realm in the wake of the Calamity's return. Link could hardly make his way through the barracks without being asked if he'd try. In truth, he never considered it. He knew of the Legend (who didn't?). He admired the Hero. His mother had taught him the prayers of the Goddess. But he was just a Knight, one among thousands of others. His highest ambition was to take his father's place as Commander of the Royal Guard when he retired - and he'd been brought up to believe that he would. At eighteen, he'd already climbed up the Guard ranks with ease. Earlier that year, he'd led a battalion against stray white moblins to the west of Faron Woodlands. He expected to be named captain of a permanent detachment in a year or two. Yet something in him stirred at the news, and when he dreamt at night he saw the Sword. It was calling him.

 

He’d make a poor Hero, perpetually late for the morning shift (he got many a beating for this from his superiors), caught stealing from the kitchen far too many times (was it his fault the rations always left him ravenously hungry?), known to forget missions (not deserting, _never_ , but the roads of Hyrule were an endless source of unexpected adventures), too short, too slender, too cheerful, too easy a laugh on his lips. Yet the more he dismissed it, the more the Sword seemed to call him. His thoughts turned to the Lost Forest every day, again and again - an unbearable, irresistible longing. And really, there was no reason for him not to go and try. No one would have to know. So he set out on his next leave, heading north of the Castle instead of south to Hateno to see his mother. He told no one of his plans: he'd go to the Forest, utterly fail to lift the Sword, laugh at himself, and that would be the end of it. It would make a funny story in the soldiers' mess. Nothing more.

 

Link shakes his head.

 

He's overthinking this. _It's just a sword_ , he tells himself ( _just a legend, just a tale for children_ ), and takes the final step towards the pedestal. The handle is cold to the touch. Ordinary. He closes his left hand around it and gives it a firm tug upwards. Nothing. It does not move. Link chuckles. Well. What did he expect? He should step back, laugh at himself like he planned to, and go back to the Castle. Instead, hazily, as if another were guiding his gestures, he places his other hand around the handle for leverage and pulls.

 

It moves.

 

Link's heart gives a jump. It moved! He pulls harder, bewildered, still disbelieving. There's... a strange glow in the clearing, all of a sudden (it isn't the sun, it cannot be), like a flash of lightning without the thunder. It illuminates the Sword, as if its hold on the pedestal were containing a light that spills, spills, spills close to his feet the harder Link pulls. His heart picks up, a frantic drumming in his chest. He cannot breathe, he cannot move. He can only pull. His ears are buzzing, his arms feel heavier. _I must stop or I will die_ , he manages to think, faintly, in a forlorn voice that does not sound his own, but his hands will not let go. He tries stepping back to get away from this dreadful enchantment, but in doing so, he finds that the Sword _can_ now slide out of its pedestal. Easily. One more pull and it will be fully out. _Don't, don't_ , he begs himself, suddenly terrified. But he does do it.

 

The Sword is his, foreign and heavy in his shaking grip, its tip reaching for the skies, reflecting and multiplying a piercing Light that blinds Link, confuses him, throws him down to his knees as uncountable scenes flash before his eyes.

 

He remembers dying first.

 

 _A red cape wrapped around his neck like a scarf. Red, like the blood on his green tunic. Blood everywhere. It pours out of the gash of his belly. It trickles down his thighs. With every pulse in his neck life slips further and further from him. His left hand is bent at an impossible angle. His back must be broken, for he cannot feel his legs, though he can see the bones crushed beyond repair, the blood pouring out of there too, slowly but inescapably. He is shaking._ In the present and in the vision, Link screams. Tears spring to his eyes, and heavy sobs rake his chest. _There is so much pain, pain he never thought possible. A Light comes closer to comfort him, calling his name, cradling him, trying to heal his wounds. But it's too late for him. Too late for him, but not for Hyrule. He will die. He will die for Her, and the land will be saved. But he is so alone. Link will always be alone._

 

A great darkness surrounds him, as if he were falling into an abyss yet he isn't moving an inch, kneeling by the pedestal, legs too heavy to move. His hands are bloodied. The Forest around him feels foreign, wrong. Still shaking, he lets go of the accursed sword. It rolls on the grass, noiselessly, and comes to rest at his feet. He crawls away, too nauseous to stand, and presses against a tree searching for comfort where he knows he will find none. Link brings his knees to his chest. He hasn't cried since he was at least six years old, but he cannot seem to stop the tears now. The grief is everlasting, stretching and stretching across time, growing thicker instead of wearing thin. No one should know what dying feels like and live to remember it.

 

He closes his eyes. Maybe the blood and the pain will disappear. They do not, but the new memories springing in his mind are sweeter. Almost soothing. Like recalling a pleasant dream in the morning, but without having ever slept. Some details, like the blood, are vivid, but others are hazier, half hidden in the shadows of his soul.

 

 _He's flying, the skies are his, She's his, and he's laughing. The wind whips his hair back, it smells of salt, and he's sailing the seas with Her as far as the eye can see. There is music, a flute-like blue instrument in his hands, Her sweet voice teaching him a lullaby. He slams the Sword into the neck of a great, dark rider with fiery red hair, killing him at once, and blood spills everywhere, splashing all over his face with revolting warmth. The rain pours down in a great cascade and he is drowning, drowning drowning, and he gasps for air, but this death isn't jarring like the first, it's peaceful, almost welcome. The sun sets in the horizon, and with the dying twilight a great sadness grows in his chest, forcing a new wave of bitter tears. An army of Guardians at his command, and he seals the darkness with a triumphant cry. A waif-like wizard twists him in the air, sucks the life out of him with a flash of purple lightning and,_ no, no, not again, _he's failed Her, and he will die_.

 

"Master. You are too early."

 

Who spoke? Link opens his eyes. The clearing is empty, dead, frozen in time. At his feet, the Sword glows faintly. He wants to call out, ask who is there, but he finds he cannot speak. The sounds seem caught in his throat. His tongue will not leave his mouth, and his lips cannot move. This sends him into enough of a panic to stand. With his back pressed against the tree for balance, he brings his hands to his throat. Nothing is wrong. He simply cannot speak.

 

"Master. He is not yet risen. It is not time. When she is ready, so will you be."

 

The Sword? The Sword is speaking? It glows with every syllable, like a breath, the voice both ethereal and metallic. Disquieting.

 

"Master, I see that the visions of your past have greatly disturbed you. While a rare occurrence, it may indicate that your spirit was not yet tempered enough to remember. My apologies. I shall return to my vigil state until you are ready. Until you both are."

 

 _Wait_ , Link thinks, just as the glow ceases. The piercing Light recedes from the clearing, and the sounds of the Forest return at once. He blinks, still blinded, still dizzy. The Sword is at his feet, but it looks ordinary once more. Lifeless. Link stares and stares and stares at it, wondering if he did get lost in the fog after all, and lost his mind as well. There is no longer blood all over himself, at least. He flexes his left hand open, once, twice: it is fine. He can move his legs fine as well, though he is too tired to stand, and he sinks back down to sit against the tree. _I'm fine_ , he tells himself, _I'm going to be fine_. But he is shaking, and his shirt is drenched in a cold, fever-like sweat. The strange pain in his stomach is hunger, he realizes as he blinks, unbearable hunger. How long has he been sitting there? Hours? Days? Years, perhaps? His tunic sticks wet and soggy against his skin. He feels groggy, as if just having woken up, but he does not remember falling asleep. He could probably manage to speak now, if he tried, but he finds he does not want to.

 

The visions of your past, the Voice called them. Link's thoughts are still disjointed, but he can count at least eight different "selves" from what he recalls. He could feel them rather than see them, all different from himself, older, younger, the same age, their thoughts and desires different from his, dream-like, following the actions of one who wasn't him, and yet was him at the same time. He lets out a shaky breath. Century after century, the same struggles, the same calamity befell the land and ravaged it to the ground. Life is so fragile. Link never realized how much.

 

He sits there, unmoving, thinking of nothing, for what seems to be a very long time.

 

 


End file.
